


Fast Times at Falsettos High

by SingARoundelay



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Let's see if I can actually manage to keep a fic remotely fluffy, M/M, Marvin is still an asshole, Marvin the drama teacher, Trina the principal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-02-08 21:30:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12873435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SingARoundelay/pseuds/SingARoundelay
Summary: Life isn’t exactly easy at Falsettos High. Not when his ex-wife is his boss, her new husband is the school counselor, and his son is about to start his freshman year. Still, Marvin is the most-liked teacher at the school — at least hewasuntil the has-been ex-major league baseball player comes to town. What to do when everyone, including his son, likes the new teacher on the block better than him.





	1. A Year Not Like All the Rest

The first thing Marvin notices when he walks into school is the cloying, sour smell of ammonia mixed with floor wax and a side helping of bleach. He gags at first, the scent hitting him like a brick wall. Then he exhales, breathes in, and smiles. Ah, a brand new year at school, full of infinite possibilities or some other garbage that belongs on an inspirational poster. These are the last few moments to enjoy a sterile smell of cleanliness before the first day of school in a new year.

Before the students descend en masse and the only thing he can smell is Axe body spray and hormones. AKA, _teenagers_.

Marvin rolls his shoulders, shifting the box in his arms. New books for the classroom along with new supplies (all purchased himself because god forbid the school district have any money for such necessities as 20 copies of _Comedy vs Tragedy: Scenes for the Theatre_ ). He’s ready to start the year out right with a unit on the man who put the “I am” in iambic pentameter.

The one and only Shakespeare. 

God among men and one of the few guys Marvin wouldn’t mind having a fling with if time travel were actually a thing and he could take his own lube and soap with him. Sure, the upperclass students would be studying the Bard in English, but there was a difference between studying and _acting_. A point he tried so often to make and was always met with eye rolls and groans by those who didn’t know any better.

Like his ex-wife, for one.

“Marvin, hold up!”

He stumbles when he hears her voice. Like thinking about her managed to summon the woman. Yeah, no. He’s not stopping for her even if she is his boss.

Marvin picks up the pace, ducking around a corner as if he was too far away to hear her call out to him in the first place. Childish, perhaps, but Marvin came to school a few days early in the vain hope of avoiding his ex-wife for one blissful day. Not to run into her and have yet another rehash of all the ways he failed her.

Really, he should have transferred when they divorced, but Marvin is too hard-headed. As far as he was concerned, if it was awkward for her _she_ should have transferred schools. But she didn’t and he didn’t and now they co-exist as best as they can as colleagues with a side helping of thinly-veiled contempt lacing most of their interactions.

At least the openly hostile phase of their divorce has faded.

Not that Marvin blames her, of course. He’s well aware that he, his sexuality, and all of his shortcomings combined to form the ultimate reason for their divorce. If anything, he’s proud that Trina speaks her mind around him rather and isn’t afraid to give in to her emotions rather than nodding and smiling and pretending things are find when they really aren’t. One day Marvin hopes they may even be able to let all the dissension go and return to friends like they originally were.

It’s a dream for another time. Right now, he has an ex to avoid.

His classroom-slash-office space is at the far end of the hall. If he picks up his pace, maybe he can cross the distance and make it inside before she rounds the corner. A plan foiled… the moment he realizes his office is locked, his keys are in his pocket, and there’s no way he’s picking this box up again after he sets it down.

Marvin pauses, box awkwardly balanced between his hip and the wall, while his free hand searches the black hole that is his pocket. Dammit. Why didn’t he keep them in his hand? There’s no way he can reach sanctuary now. Marvin hears the tell-tale clack of heels behind him and know he’s fucked.

“Didn’t you hear me calling out to you?” she asks, huffing in annoyance.

Marvin sighs. “Trina, your timing is impeccable as always. Care to give me a hand?” he juts his hip out slightly as if to say grab the keys and let me into my office. The box teeters, Marvin barely able to keep it and its contents upright. 

Trina gives him a _look_ that clearly says she has no intention of putting her hands anywhere near his body. Instead, she pulls a keyring out of her purse and reaches around Marvin, unlocking the door with what appears to be a master key. She drops the keys back into her bag and saunters into the office.

“Of course, please come in,” Marvin mutters under his breath.

She stops and turns. Whelp, apparently he said that aloud rather than think it. Her smile takes on a hint of venom as she speaks. “Seems like I have a knack for catching you with your hands full.” 

_Ouch._ Okay, so their marriage fell apart because he was stupid enough to get caught in bed with another man. She really didn’t have to remind him of this fact on a weekly basis.

It was three years ago after all. Move on.

Marvin narrows his eyes. “And here I thought we were going to be moving past the petty insults. New year, new leaf and all that.”

“The school year hasn’t officially started yet. There’s still time.”

Marvin steps into his classroom, making a fast grab for the door to shut it all the while keeping the box balanced in mid-air. Successful, he drops it to the floor with a thud and appraises his ex-wife with his best stare. 

“It’s always such a _joy_ whenever you bring up my indiscretion that ended our marriage. Remind me once again why I haven’t switched high schools yet?”

Trina perches on the edge of his desk, crossing one long leg over the other. “Because you don’t want to drive more than an hour every morning because _that_ would mean getting up around 5 AM. Furthermore, you don’t want to move further away from me since your son finally doesn’t hate you any more.” She shrugs. “He’s settled around the level of mild derision that I fully empathize with.”

He’s not sure which he’s more annoyed at: the fact that she’s right on both accounts or the fact that they’re having this conversation at all. He sighs again (he tends to do that a lot around Trina he notices), running a hand through his hair. Most likely it’s a side-effect of her going from wife to ex-wife all the while remaining his _boss_. 

Turning his back to her, Marvin crouches down and begins to unpack as if she wasn’t even in the room. The silence between them is less than companionable, and Marvin wonders which of them is going to break first in this test of wills. 

It’s hard because, deep down, he still loves the woman. It may not be a romantic sort of love — hell, it never was if he’s honest — but once upon a time they were friends. They’d dated, back when Marvin had pretended to be straight and thought he needed to have a heteronormative life in order to be truly _happy_. He understands why she feels as she does toward him after their divorce. He doesn’t begrudge her this anger. Marvin should have told her he was gay in a better way than letting her come home from the boys’ varsity state baseball championships to find him balls deep in a guy he’d picked up an hour earlier at a gay bar.

Marvin understands why she’s angry. If the situation were reversed and she were the one caught in bed with another man or woman, he’d probably feel the same. So he lets her snipe at him, recognizing that as each year passes they start to find more of a peace between them. She’s not the bad guy here; he is.

The silence continues to stretch, Marvin hearing the tap-tap-tap of her heel against his metal desk. It drives him crazy.

Looks like he’s the one who will have to break the silence. Trina, 1; Marvin, -342.

“So, Principal Weisenbachfeld. Was there a reason for this torment or are you just enjoying yourself?”

She hops down off the desk. “There’s always a reason, but I admit I was enjoying myself, too. Two birds with one stone and all that.” Though her actions say otherwise as she helps him stack the books on the nearest desk. It’s moments like this that Marvin clings to, like there’s hope for a time without animosity between them. “My son is starting high school this year.”

“ _Our_ son,” Marvin corrects. “And I’m well aware. He’s reminded me practically every weekend for the last eight months that, under no uncertain terms, will he call me Dad let alone set foot in my classroom. He’s not going to be the uncool kid since three of his parents work here.”

He carefully picks up the stack of books, realizing only after he’s grabbed them all that he misjudged the size of the pile. He stretches his neck, using his chin to hold them in place. It’s a balancing act better accomplished by a giraffe as, if he squeezes too hard, the middle will shoot out and send books flying everywhere. Marvin waddles across the floor one step at a time, too proud to make multiple trips when he can (sorta) carry them all at once.

“…About that,” Trina says, rolling onto the balls of her feet. “There’s been an… well, there’s been an issue.”

Just like that, Marvin clenches his jaw and the books spew every which way, scattering across the room like a deck of playing cards. Marvin kicks the nearest one, sending it spiraling and skidding along the freshly waxed floor to land near the bookshelf.

“Absolutely not. Whatever is in that pretty little head of yours, you can get it back out again. You said it yourself: Jason is just starting to like me again.”

“But Marv—”

“But nothing, Trina,” he interrupts, crossing his arms in front of his chest and kicking another book out of the way. This one spins in place rather than travel like a projectile. “Because no matter what you say to him, he’ll still think this is _my_ doing. After the twenty-seventh time he asked me to just ‘stay cool’, I _promised_ him that he wouldn’t have to endure any of my, in his words, bullshit drama workshops.”

Marvin is, of course, still incredibly offended at his son’s opinion on his highly-popular classes. 

“And _furthermore_!” Marvin holds up a hand before Trina can get a word in edgewise. “It took another three weeks of negotiation just to get him to agree to still participate in my chess club and not have it double as father/son bonding time.”

The terms of said negotiation were sworn to absolute secrecy between the two men, never to be divulged… mostly because Marvin knew exactly how Trina would react to Marvin buying three Playboy magazines for his son in return for chess club participation.

“Marvin, please…”

“Nope!” Marvin bends down, starting to pick up the rest of the scattered texts. “Whatever you want to ask or beg, you can forget it. Find another student or pull some strings—you’re the boss after all—just not from me or my son.”

“ _Our_ son,” Trina parrots back, using the same mocking tone Marvin did earlier. He winces. He really was trying to tone down some of the hostility, even if all evidence was to the contrary. “And…” she sighs, kneeling to help him pick up the books as well. It’s almost like an olive branch. Marvin knows he should take it but he stays silent, so she continues, “There’s no one else. I tried. Believe me. You know I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t the absolute last resort. But he wanted to add in a few extra courses after he tested out of his entry-level math and science classes. Plus we have a new baseball program starting—”

Aaaand the truth comes out. Finally.

First off, why do they need an in-school class for baseball? Isn’t that an extracurricular sport played after school in the spring? It’s fall in New York and even if the World Series is considered the Fall classic, this is football weather. Not baseball.

If Marvin gave one whit about sports. Which he doesn’t. His idea of checking stats involves which broadway actor has performed in the most number of shows or been involved in the most Sondheim productions.

Still, Marvin bites his tongue on that one. He doesn’t feel like fighting an argument on multiple fronts for once in his life.

Marvin rolls his eyes at the absurdity of it all. “Baseball?” God, Trina, do you want to let the kid embarrass himself? You know as well as I that Jewish boys and baseball mix as well as oil and water.”

Trina slams the pile of books she’s collected on the floor, throwing her hands up in the air, and fixing her exe-husband with a sneer. So maybe, as always, Marvin went a little too far.

“You know, Mendel says—”

It’s like a bomb goes off in the back of his mind. Marvin can handle a lot of things: his son’s hatred of him, his ex-wife’s quasi-hostility, someone who thinks milk belongs in coffee, white shoes after labor day… It’s Mendel that trips his trigger like no other. Really, who could blame Marvin? For years he talked to the man about struggles with his homosexuality and all of his other personal problems. Confided in him about his wife, even _begged_ Mendel to counsel her at the height of their marital differences.

Then after he left his wife, she dried her eyes and ran off with his shrink. Hard not to feel at least an eight point save on the betrayal scale.

“Ah yes, my ex-psychiatrist-turned-coparent-turned-school-counselor. What, pray tell, did the genius have to say this time to get Jason’s hopes up about his imagined athletic prowess? List a bunch of ballplayers who happen to be Jewish and use it as proof positive Jason can become the next Sandy Koufax?”

Trina’s stony silence is answer enough. She taps her foot on the floor. “I’m surprised you even know who Koufax is, Mister I Hate Baseball.”

He’d have to be dead not to know who Koufax was.

Marvin keeps on ranting, ignoring Trina. “For fuck’s sake. Why did you even come in here to ask my permission in the first place? You and Mendel are just going to dictate my life anyway and fuck whatever sort of relationship I was rekindling with my son in the process. Though maybe I should thank you for giving me the heads up that Jason is about to hate my guts again. Let’s add one more broken promise to the ever-growing list! ”

Trina takes a step back as if Marvin had just slapped her. It wouldn’t be the first time he raised a hand to her (though it was just the one time, he had been drunk, and it had never happened since) and Marvin wonders if he’d gone too far. He takes a step toward her, whatever thing that had possessed him, bleeding out in an exhale.

Marvin has a talent for doing things like this. Always manages to push things just off the proverbial ledge until all that remains are hurt feelings and shattered emotions. It’s like picking up a broken vase: one never knows if you collected all the shards until a piece digs into your foot and burrows under the skin. 

Every time he thinks he’s getting better, his temper gets the best of him.

“Trina, I—” Marvin starts, but doesn’t quite know how to finish the sentence. Apologies have never been his strong suit.

Hell, he still owes Trina one from three years ago. If that one hasn’t materialized yet, it’s doubtful she’ll get one now.

“What do I have to agree to?” He asks at last. 

Trina’s voice is quiet and Marvin hates when he reduces her to nothing like this. “Intro to drama,” she replies. “In order for him to take sophomore math and science along with his freshman year courses, your class is the only one that fits into his schedule.”

“I want to talk to him about this,” Marvin says. “We _both_ should talk to him tonight. I want to make it absolutely clear this was not my doing or anything else nefarious.”

Trina pauses, as if afraid to speak. “He… already knows. He says it’s worth it.”

Marvin’s jaw drops. So all this bullshit and this entire conversation was unnecessary. It takes all his self-control not to shout at her again, not point out that everyone really _is_ dictating his life and gives him no say in the outcome. He might have fucked a guy and divorced his wife but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be consulted in decisions.

He still _is_ Jason’s father. 

“So I’m the last to know.” The words taste sour in his mouth.

All the excitement of the year to come has left him, deflated like a balloon not tied properly. Fart noise and all.

“I’m sorry, Marvin,” Trina says and he almost believes her. “I knew how he felt about taking your class, but he didn’t want to pass up the chance to get to work with our new coach.”

“New coach?” Marvin tilts his head to the side, choosing to focus on that instead. “What happened to our old one? We did have one, right?” It’s a stupid question to ask, but Marvin rarely ventures anywhere that doesn’t have a stage and footlights. 

Trina lets out a bark of a laugh. “Yes we had one, you dolt. But we had the chance of a lifetime come to us. There’s a guy who plays for the Yankees who blew his shoulder out a couple seasons ago and it’s unlikely he’ll be able to return. So we snatched him up as our new gym teacher by day and baseball coach by night. His only demand was to teach a semester-long baseball course about the mechanics of the game.”

Well that seems… odd. “Who the hell plays for the Yankees decides that, when he can’t play baseball any longer, that the correct career move is coaching some kids in Scarsdale? Wouldn’t he have some nice cushy salary to fall back on instead?”

Trina huffs. “You know, some people do things because they love it. And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. We both know you could still headline on Broadway if you went to any audition and yet you choose to be here instead, training the next generation of actors. You’re damn good at it and I know he will be too.”

Nothing like a bit of ego stroking to smooth over any and all of Marvin’s ruffled feathers. 

“It’s a great opportunity for the school, your son included,” Trina says, closing the divide between them. She lightly squeezes his hand, giving him a hopeful smile. It’s the best either of them can really do to bridge the gap but it’s enough. Marvin returns the gesture, but his smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

“How could I say no to Jason?” he asks, resigned to his fate. “If it’s his idea and he’s not going to blame me, it’s fine by me.”

Trina bounces to her toes and throws her arms around Marvin in a quick hug. He returns it before they both come to their senses and pull away like two embarrassed teenagers.

“So… who _is_ this guy, anyway?” Marvin asks, finally going back to his box to finish unpacking. 

Trina smooths her skirt down, heading to the door. “I doubt you’d know him even though his name _was_ splashed all through the news when he got injured last year.” Marvin gives her a blank look and she laughs. “I swear to god, you’re the only New Yorker in existence not to at least be vaguely familiar with the home team.” She opens the door, slipping out.

“A name?” he calls out after her. “Insult my lack of sports knowledge later.”

“Whizzer Brown.”

The door closes and Marvin is glad he’s alone. The color drains from his face and he shakily lowers himself into the nearest chair.

Trina doesn’t know it but she just invited the proverbial wolf into the lion’s den.

Whizzer Brown, the reason why he refuses to follow any sport let alone baseball.

Whizzer Brown, the one night stand that caused his divorce.

He is so fucked.


	2. Whizzer Brown Makes an Entrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you'd have told Whizzer Brown he'd be teaching _gym_ at a prep school rather than traveling with the Yankees, he'd have called you crazy. Settling in at the new school, check. Meeting his new boss, check.
> 
> Invited home for dinner where he meets his principal's ex-husband and it's hate at first sight? Well...

The moment his polished shoe set foot inside the school, Whizzer Brown has to fight the urge to gag. The strong scent of ammonia and pine sol has him flashing back to the weeks spent flat on his back in the hospital. Shuddering memories of the time spent in physical therapy while waiting to see if his shoulder could actually _heal_ or if he’d be another statistic of a bright shooting star that burned out before his prime. (Thankfully the jury is still out on that last part. No heavy use for a solid year and his doctor would re-evaluate his fitness for the majors.) Christ, how could anyone stand to smell this day in and day out without losing their fucking minds?

First order of business: find the janitor and bribe them with a signed baseball or jersey to _please_ find a disinfectant that didn’t smell like he was blowing a pine tree. 

As his shoes clack on the shiny tile, taking in posters welcoming students back for another year of FUN AND LEARNING—God, really? Who comes up with this shit?—Whizzer approaches the trophy case installed near the front office. While the glass gleams from whatever overzealous cleaning staff wanted to make the school shine like the top of the Chrysler Building… apparently they forgot to extend the same courtesy to what’s _inside_ the case.

A thin layer of dust covers the shelves, obscuring names and dates for the most part. But with the number of cut nets draped over some of them, Whizzer assumes those are dedicated to the basketball team, though none of the awards seem to post-date 1989. The football team has a few entries from the mid-90s and he thinks he spies a few awards for Water Polo dating from the 70s. Nothing for baseball, he notes with a snort of derision. 

However, there are two shelves dedicated to the—what the fuck? _Theatre_ department? Really? Someone gives out awards for theatre? He presses his nose up against the glass—sorry not sorry for the smudge—trying to read the loopy script on one of the plaques. Some I.T.S. award—whatever that stands for—given to a Mr. Marvin Levitt and class for their rendition of David Ives one-act plays. The date is for last year. He peers at another plaque. This one, also, to Mr. Marvin Levitt and class for The Complete Works of Shakespeare (abridged). That one given out four years ago. 

While the shelves for other sports are fairly sparse, all the theatre awards are crammed on top of each other, looking ready to spill onto the sports shelves. He narrows his eyes at the picture of the short, curly-haired guy standing amongst his students. Must be the aforementioned Marvin Levitt. He hates him on sight. Theatre awards are a waste of valuable real estate in a trophy case if you ask him… especially given the lack of baseball awards. Theatre belongs… wherever those odd theatre people hang out. Not with the all-mighty _sports_ suffering.

Well, he is going to make sure _that_ changes in a hurry, or his name isn’t two-time Cy Young award winner Whizzer Brown.

“Mister Brown?”

He jumps at the sound of a voice, wondering how he missed the sound of her approach, especially given the height of her heels and the emptiness of the halls. Whizzer gives a slight nod to the woman, sticking his hand out by way of greeting. 

“It’s just Whizzer,” he says with a chuckle. “The last person to call me Mister Brown was my eleventh grade science teacher.” He pauses. “Hated the bastard. Automatically made me hate anyone who calls me Mister. Problematic for a few reporters.”

The woman shakes his hand, though doesn’t look entirely thrilled at the name Whizzer or the way profanity drips off his tongue. “Whizzer it is,” she says, clasping her hands in front of her. Her posture screams woman-who-tries-too-hard-to-exert-authority-over-others. “Pleased to meet you, and I can’t tell you how happy we are to have you at the school. My son hasn’t stopped talking about you for weeks.”

Whizzer flashes one of his thousand-watt smiles that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m looking forward to working with the kids, your son included, Ms…?”

A nervous laugh escapes the woman. “I’m so sorry, where are my manners? Trina Weisenbachfeld—”

Shit. “—Ah, madam principal—” He starts to apologize but she keeps on speaking.

“—and if there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask. We have a couple of days before school starts, but I thought you might want to get settled in early. High school is quite a bit different from the majors, I’d wager.”

Ugh, he hates small talk.

“Well, for starters, I expect I’ll tower over just about everyone here,” he says, grinning. At six-foot-four, Whizzer will be a veritable giant over the high school kids.

Trina lets out a trill of nervous laughter that Whizzer immediately assumes is flirting. Because everyone, regardless of marital status, tends to hit on him at some point or another. Yes, even though he was the first openly gay ball player in the majors, has been linked to just about every gay celebrity at some point or another—not to mention a few _supposedly_ straight ones, too—somehow most of the women he meets thinks they can flip him back to the so-called “straight and narrow.”

Hardly.

Once upon a time it was cute. Now it’s annoying as hell. How many scandals does he need to have with various members of his _own sex_ before people realize he’s _gay_ and no pair of tits is going to convince him otherwise?

Though if those are Louboutins, he’ll at least say she has excellent taste in footwear, even if misguided with her men.

He’s trying to work out how to let her down, figuring that the excuse of people who date within the workplace exercise poor judgment is the gentlest way when he hears the squeal of rubber soles on polished tile. Whizzer winces at the sound. 

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygoditshimhiohmygodit’syouit’sreallyyouomg.”

Somewhere through the smashed together sentence, Whizzer manages to pick out a few words. He pinches the bridge of his nose, mentally preparing himself for this times three-hundred once school officially starts. Releasing his nose, he turns to face the kid and finds his brilliant smile he turns on from the cameras. He crouches down to be about the height of the kid. 

“Hey, sport. Nice to meet you.”

The kid bounces on the toes of his chucks, tugging on Trina’s hand. “Can I? I know we’re not supposed to but… but… can I?”

Trina chuckles, ruffling the boy’s hair. Oddly familiar motion for a principal to make with a student. Which, why _is_ there a kid here before school starts? If it were him, he’d be spending every last second of the summer on the ball field and _not_ wandering the halls like a pro-education ghost. 

“It’s your one chance, Jason,” she says with a kind smile for the boy. “Once school starts the no-autograph rule is in place.”

Jason produces a ball from his pocket and holds it out to Whizzer. “Canyoupleasesignmyball? Pleasepleasepleaseprettypleaseohmygodpleaseyou’resocool.”

Ah, back to the unintelligible sentences it seems.

“ _Jason_.” Trina gives an apologetic look to Whizzer. “I’m sorry about my son. I wager you’re going to have to deal with a lot of similarly starstruck kids in the coming days. The kids are more than a little excited to have you here.”

Whizzer takes the ball from the kid and runs his finger over the red stitching. “Wait, go back. A no-autograph rule?” Whizzer asks, arching an eyebrow as he looks up at Trina. “I don’t remember putting that in my list of requirements to take the job.”

“I’d meant to say something earlier when contracts were signed. But I figured you didn’t want to sign a thousand autographs for all the kids. So, in order to keep this a learning-only institution and not a free-for-all, we decided this would be the wisest course of action. A notice went to all parents to have their kids be on notice: once school starts it’s an autograph-free zone.” She taps her foot on the polished tile, the sound echoing. “Of course, I’m sure you realize, that goes both ways. I expect that you will not sign anything to use as leverage against the kids.”

Jesus, what kind of a person did Trina think he is? “Leverage?” He asks, staring at her as if she’d grown three heads.

“You know,” she waves her hand dismissively. “Do extra credit for a signed ball or make the kids compete for tickets. That sort of… thing.”

This woman is mental, Whizzer decides. And the no-autograph rule is stupid. He doesn’t mind signing balls for kids, he minds trying to figure out what they’re saying when he can’t differentiate words.

“Well Jason, I’d be happy to sign your ball, and anyone else’s for that matter no matter what crazy rules your mom put in place.” He smirks when he hears her huff of frustration. Hey, maybe pissing her off is the best way to ensure he doesn’t have to rebuff her advances. “Now… spell … uh… Weisenbachfeld for me?”

Poor kid. That last name is a nightmare.

Jason shakes his head. “It’s Levitt, not Weisenbachfeld. My parents are divorced.”

Well he’s just stepping in it all over the place today, isn’t he? 

“Sorry about that, kiddo.”

Of course, he also doesn’t put the name in the display case and Jason’s surname together either. Talk about batting a thousand. Still, he signs the ball and flips it back to the boy before rising to his feet.

“Anything else you need from me, Trina? If not, I’m heading home for some frozen piz—”

“Come to our house,” Jason blurts out. 

“ _What?!_ ” Whizzer and Trina speak in unison looking back and forth between each other and then Jason like some comedy of errors. 

“Yeah!” Jason says, bouncing up onto his toes again. “You should totally come to our house for dinner.”

Trina is staring at her son as if he just asked her to walk across coals while carrying an elephant on her shoulders. Whizzer is, well, amused, but knows this is a stupid idea all the same. 

“Jason, I don’t think that’s appropriate at all,” Trina says, patting her son on the shoulder and trying to tug him away from Whizzer.

“No, Mom,” Jason shrugs his mom off. “He doesn’t know anyone here. And would let him get to meet a few other people. I mean, I know Dad hates baseball and all—”

“What kind of a monster hates _baseball_?” Whizzer asks, gobsmacked. Yes, he focuses on this contempt for his sport rather than if he should accept an invitation. Oh he wants to meet the man who despises baseball. The guy has to be fucking mental.

“Actually, I think it’s less dislike for baseball itself but more a generalized hatred toward any sporting event in general.” He’s so excited by the plan he’s practically vibrating. “Come on, please? Mom always makes way too much food for us every Shabbat.”

That seems to snap Trina out of her trance. “Jason, that’s quite a big assumption to ask someone like Mister Brown—that is, Whizzer—to a meal like that. I’m sure he has much better things to do with his time—”

“But he _said_ he was eating frozen pizza for dinner!” Jason protests.

“Not to mention,” Trina continues as if Jason hadn’t spoken, “we do a _family_ meal once a month. This is reserved for _family_. Our _Jewish_ family,” she adds as an afterthought.

Whizzer flashes her a smile that’s all teeth. “I may not be family, but I just so happen to be half-Jewish.”

“I--” Trina’s voice falters and, when she sees the hopeful expression on her son’s face, it seems the choice is taken from her.

Hell, it seems like the choice is taken from _both_ of them.

“Come at 6:30,” Trina says, her voice flat. “We light the candles promptly at 7:12. I’ll text you the address later.”

***

“312… 326…” Whizzer’s muttering house numbers as he walks along 85th—with Riverside Drive in front of him—glancing back and forth between his phone and the street.

He swears he sees people peering out their windows along the block—probably wondering what the hell the has-been Yankee is doing snooping around their little section of Manhattan, rather than sitting in the back of a black sedan taking him to his destination. He’s sure they’re concocting all sorts of stories in their heads just to satisfy their curiosity. Funny how people are so obsessed with celebrities sometimes that they forgot they are _still people_ behind all the trappings of fame. 

You’d think he’d be used to it by now. Or, more likely, you’d think they’d have moved on to the next rising star player and forgotten all about him.

It’s been two seasons since he blew out his shoulder during the last game of the World Series and _still_ the talking heads bring him up periodically to discuss the injury and the likelihood of recovery. At first it was flattering. Now it’s annoying. It’s a constant reminder that winning the game cost him the one thing he loved: playing baseball. He knows it’s only because of his stats and the fact that he helped the Yanks win back-to-back championships that they haven’t released him from his contract. At the same time, it’s been two years and he knows he’s living on borrowed time.

Whizzer wonders how much longer he’d still be able to call himself a Yankee.

As if summoned by his thoughts, his shoulder chimes in and tightens, making him hiss in pain. He rubs the sore muscle with his thumb like his chiropractor taught him and soon the muscle spasm releases. He’s hoping working with these kids at school will be enough to start loosening the scar tissue in his shoulder blade so maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to start pitching again.

“342. Bingo.”

Whizzer isn’t quite sure what he expected when he arrived at the Weisenbachfeld house, but he’s sure this isn’t it. It’s a nondescript brownstone on the Upper West Side, looking like every other row house to either side of it. Whizzer is, consequently, severely unprepared for the utter chaos that exists inside.

Not to mention the sheer _size_. He swears it’s bigger than _his_ apartment and his salary was seven figures a year.

“Whizzer! You came!”

He’s assaulted by the kid from this afternoon—Jason, his brain helpfully supplies—practically throwing himself at Whizzer. He looks down at the kid, surprised at the show of affection from a thirteen-year-old. This kid’s going to be a freshman? Parents who let their kids skip grades should be shot. Sure, nice when they’re young… horrible when they hit high school. The kids are going to eat him alive.

“You asked me to come; since you asked me to come, I came.”

“ _Mom_! Whizzer’s here!”

Jason’s voice is about twelve decibels too loud for the entranceway, so Whizzer unwinds himself from Jason’s octopus-like arms and heads toward the scent of food. 

At least dinner smells edible.

“Ah, you must be Whizzer Brown! ” A short man with a dark, curly mop of hair peeks around a corner and approaches with an outstretched hand. Whizzer shakes it in return, then passes a bottle of wine over to him. “Oh, thanks for this, it’ll go great with dinner. We’re still waiting on Marvin, but he’s perpetually late. Swear the guy will be late for his own funeral one of these days. But come on in and make yourself at home.”

Whizzer just _stares_ at the guy. Does he have a name or is he going to be calling him ‘guy’ all night long? He glances back at the door and sighs. He never, _ever_ should have agreed to this and let the kid learn to live with disappointment.

It’s too late to leave now. Toeing off his shoes in the foyer, Whizzer follows the other man through the apartment and toward the living room. Then, as if realizing he hasn’t even introduced himself, he stops short and Whizzer plows into his back. 

He can feign a stomach virus and escape. Totally not at _all_ suspicious, right? _Right_?

“Where are my manners?” he extends a hand for the second time. “Mendel Weisenbachfeld. Huge fan of yours and all, but then again who isn’t? Ever since my wife mentioned that you were starting at the school, you’re all Jason can talk about. I mean, it’s exciting for _all_ of us.”

Whizzer lets out an uncomfortable cough, folding his body into one of the nearby armchairs. “Well, I’m looking forward to working with the kids most of all. Haven’t much been able to play—”

“But at least you won the game for us!” Mendel says, perching on the arm of a couch opposite Whizzer. “Man, that game sure was something. I didn’t think you had it that night with the way you were throwing. But man, those few sliders…”

Whizzer zones out as Mendel prattles on about the game. Next time Jason asks him home for dinner he has to learn how to say ‘fuck no, I’d rather die’ without destroying the kid. But there’s no way he’s going to sit through another of these.

“Jason, where the hell is your father, he’s late. Aga—oh, Whizzer! I didn’t know you were here.”

Whizzer swivels his head and gives Trina a tiny wave. 

“Mom, I _told_ you he was here,” Jason says, rolling his eyes at his mother. Okay, maybe the kid will be okay in high school. It’s just with him that he turns into a stuttering mess. Like step-father like son?

Wait, Jason’s father was coming? What the hell kind of fucked up family dynamic was this?

“Yes, yes, you did, darling. Now why don’t you and Mendel go finish setting the table and getting the candles while I try not to murder your father when he comes. Shoo, shoo.”

Step-father and son exit stage right, leaving Trina alone with Whizzer. He really wishes someone would have offered him a glass of wine _or_ that he would have had the foresight to pregame this meal. Who’d have thought?

“Well, if Marvin doesn’t get here soon, we’ll just have to start without him,” Trina says, tucking a stray flyaway hair behind her ear. “I’m really sorry about all of this. I’m sure it’s not at all what you’re used to.”

Whizzer waves a hand, pretending he isn’t at all uncomfortable. “Don’t worry about it. It’s… been an... entertaining evening so far.”

“I’d hoped it would go a little differently tonight and you’d have had the chance to meet a few other faculty members.” Whizzer gives her a strange look and she tilts her head up in exasperation. “Of _course_ he forgot to mention that part. My husband… and my ex… both work at the school. Mendel is the guidance counsellor. He and I had a bit of an… unconventional courtship.” She bites her lip, as if debating how much to tell him. Whizzer, never one to turn down gossip, leans forward in encouragement. “Well, Mendel used to by my husband’s therapist. After... “ A funny look passes over her face. “The reason doesn’t matter so much as after I divorced my ex, I married my ex’s psychiatrist.”

Well, maybe this evening would be a bit more interesting than he thought after all.

“My Ex also works at the school. He’s—”

The sound of the front door opening and closing cuts off the rest of Trina’s sentence.

“Enter Marvin Levitt, stage left!” 

“—the _drama_ teacher,” she says with a long-suffering sigh. “Jason laughed _once_ at his bad joke and now it’s the only way he’ll enter a room. Warning: don’t laugh at his attempt at a joke, he’s not as funny as he thinks he is. He’s more sarcastic—”

“ _MOM! Dad’s here!_ ”

A pained smile crosses Trina’s face, the expression disappearing as soon as Whizzer spots it. Trina’s an interesting woman, he’s coming to realize. She’s clearly uncomfortable showing a side to herself and her family that isn’t the perfect picture of a nuclear family. Interesting.

Into the living room walks a man who is the spitting image of Jason, only older. The same curly hair—not for the first time, Whizzer thanks his dominant Catholic genes for keeping him from inheriting the Jewish curl—but at least Jason has some semblance of fashion sense. Whizzer can’t help but wrinkle his nose at the tie that wasn’t even in fashion thirty years ago, let alone now.

Also who in their right mind willingly wore _plaid_?

Yet, in spite of the fashion disaster, Whizzer can’t help but notice the guy’s attractive. Especially those arms. _Fuck._ He exhales, shaking his head. Even if the principal is married to the guidance counsellor, Whizzer knows better than to shit where he eats. He still is shaking off the rumor he blew his Manager to get the number four spot in the order.

Even if there _was_ a blowjob, it wasn’t in exchange for batting cleanup.

“Marvin, would it have killed you to be on time?” Trina asks, huffing and pulling Whizzer from his thoughts. “Just _once_ Tonight was _important_.”

Marvin gives the woman a look. “I’d love to. But trying to catch a taxi at 6:00 on a Friday is also impossible. Or do you forget what those yellow things are since you can just call a black car whenever you want?”

Trina bristles. “You’re the one who still wants to live out your misspent youth in Greenwich,” she replies. “Also, there’s this newfangled thing called _Uber_. Try it some time. But that would also require you get rid of that thing you call a _phone_.”

“A phone makes calls. That’s all it should do.”

Whizzer stares at the two of them argue, head snapping back and forth as they lob insults back and forth. He’s gotten less whiplash watching Federer play at the U.S. Open. Not for the first time, Whizzer wonders if he could sneak out of the apartment unnoticed. 

“So nice of you to not even _notice_ we have company,” Trina says, turning on her heel and stalking back to the kitchen.

“Trina’s never invited _company_ on family night,” Marvin says, crossing his arms in front of his chest and fixing Whizzer with a stare. “So… who are you?”

Whizzer blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Are you deaf?” 

“Not the last time I checked.”

“Then… who are you?”

Yeah, that’s what he thought Marvin asked.

“Are you serious right now?” Whizzer stares at Marvin.

“I may be a lot of things, but psychic medium is not one of them. Who. Are. You.” He over-enunciates the space between each word.

“You have no idea who I am.”

“I thought we already established that.”

“You’re _kidding_ me.”

Marvin narrows his eyes. “Are you done yet?”

Whizzer isn’t trying to be pedantic, but it’s hard to believe that someone who lives in New York City doesn’t know who he is. His face was only plastered across half the MTA busses during his last ad campaign six months ago. Plus… He’s a fucking _Yankee_. (Not like he’s a Met or anything, that lack of recognition he could have excused.)

“Whizzer Brown,” he says, hoping that will jog his memory.

“Funny name.”

Apparently not.

“No better than Marvin,” Whizzer says, annoyance beginning to get the better of him. “You… honestly have no idea who I am? I can’t believe it. Someone… legitimately doesn’t know who I am.”

Marvin shrugs. “At this point, frankly, Mr. Ego, I don’t really care to. 'He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.'”

And with that, Marvin sweeps out of the room, Whizzer staring slack-jawed after him. _This_ is who he has to spend the next year working side-by-side with? As the name Marvin clicks in the back of Whizzer's head, he realizes he _has_ seen this guy before. He's the same one from the trophy case with all the theatre awards taking up precious real-estate from where all _his_ baseball trophies will soon go. Oh this is too fucking rich.

Doesn’t matter how hot Marvin may be—dadbod and all—Whizzer’s going to make his life a living hell.

That’ll teach him not to recognize baseball royalty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you guys for your patience! Apparently writing so much angst-filled fic in December may have killed off my muse. BUT! I'm back and ready to provide you with all your AU needs. So thanks for being patient and sticking around! As always, comments and kudos are love -- and feel free to stop by my tumblr at [singaroundelay](http://singaroundelay.tumblr.com)!

**Author's Note:**

> At last, the beginning of the long-promised High School Teacher AU. I'm super excited about this fic you guys! My goal is to be updating chapters of this and the College AU every other week or so -- so not too long to wait for updates!
> 
> There's two musical non-falsettos references in here. First person to find them and send me an ask on Tumblr (@singaroundelay on Tumblr too) gets to request a Falsettos-based drabble! 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and I hope you'll enjoy this AU. Comments and kudos are always love. <333


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